A Normal Day
by mahc
Summary: JED-LANDINGHAM-ENSEMBLE Post-ep for ITSOTG. POV: Mrs. Landingham.


Author: Amanda (MAHC) Title: A Normal Day Character: Mrs. Landingham (Jed is the focus of the story, though.) Category: Post-Episodes Rating: G Summary: The second-most traumatic event in her life has occurred – to the man who was almost as much a son to her as her real sons. Now, along with the others, she waits for him to return.  
  
Author's Notes: So many of the Post-eps for ITSOTG revolve around Josh. Since AS skipped over the events of the weeks following the shooting (in "The Midterms"), I wanted to see a little more detail.  
  
A Normal Day A West Wing Story  
  
By: MAHC  
  
POV: Mrs. Landingham Spoilers: ITSOTG Rating: G  
Disclaimer: These characters were not created by me, but I  
appreciate the opportunity to play with them.  
  
The West Wing bustled with business as usual just after eight a.m. The peas-and-carrots muffle of muted conversations lent a constant underlying accompaniment to the irregular tune of soft computer bleeps, as armies of crisp Windsor-knotted ties and power suits rushed back and forth. In the midst of this churning sea sat an older woman, blond-gray hair trained in a straight page-boy imitation, her very presence a solid anchor for the bobbing boats about her. Her dignity and stoic calm gave voice to the significant fact that she sat only a few feet away from the office of someone who was arguably the most powerful man in the world. On a normal day, the door to that office would swing open, and the President would saunter out, his blue eyes twinkling, his mouth poised to deliver a sharp comment planned to rattle his imperturbable secretary. Usually, he failed, but that never kept him from trying. Their good-natured barbs were a popular and common attraction, just part of a normal day at the Bartlet White House.  
  
But today, the woman at the desk reminded herself, the President would not be bursting through the doors. He would not bait her with witty barbs, or sharp sarcasm. Today things were not normal, and had not been for almost a week. A week since she had stood with Margaret, horrified at the news anchor's unbelievable announcement. A week since she had waited at the hospital for word of his condition. A week since she had joined colleagues in praying for one of their own who hovered between life and death. And a week since the idyllic vision of their White House had been shattered by the bullets of two mad teenagers.  
  
Since that moment, the entire staff had been wandering almost in a daze, doing their jobs, but doing them automatically, like robots, still in shock. The news that Josh would make it heartened them a great deal. Certainly the President's return to the White House after only two days in the hospital boosted morale, as well, but he had remained in the residence since then, conducting business from there under the watchful eyes of the First Lady and Leo, who relayed any decisions. Slowly, they fell into the old routines, if there had been any, and simply waited. Waited for Josh to go home, waited for the President to come back to the Oval Office, waited for the world to return to "normalcy."  
  
She took a moment to lift the picture of her two sons and gaze at it. The President had given her the frame, for no reason at all, except to show his affection and appreciation. He wasn't quite young enough to have been her son, himself, but she thought of him as one, anyway, or at least a younger brother. She missed him. Missed his warmth, his humor, his energy that made that office next to hers come alive. She knew they all did, but she felt her bond was perhaps a little stronger. After all, she had been with him for...how many years was it now?  
  
"One hundred thousand!"  
  
She looked up to see the tall, graceful figure of C.J. Cregg approach, deep in conversation with Sam Seaborn.  
  
"I beg your pardon," the secretary said.  
  
They turned to look at her. "There are one hundred thousand species of spiders and scorpions. Did you know that Mrs. Landingham?" Sam asked seriously. He was almost as much of a trivia fiend as Jed Bartlet.  
  
Mrs. Landingham pursed her lips. "I have worked for the President for many years, Sam. I can also tell you how many species of mammals and fish there are, especially in New Hampshire. Now what's the interest in spiders and scorpions?'  
  
C.J. visibly shuddered. "One hundred thousand species of these things and at least a third of those have made extensive webs under the eaves of my house."  
  
"Don't you clean your eaves every season?" Sam asked, surprised.  
  
"Give me a break, Sam. Who does that?'  
  
"I do."  
  
"I should have known. No, I guess I'm just too busy WORKING. Anyway, who am I to destroy members of a species that is practically extinct?"  
  
Shaking her head indulgently at the senior staff members, Mrs. Landingham inquired, "What brings you two up here?" But she already knew.  
  
C.J. Cregg shrugged, not quite able to make their appearance seem coincidental. "We just thought we'd stop by and visit."  
  
The President's secretary studied them for a moment, then returned her attention to the neat stack of papers on her desk. "I don't know if it's today or not," she said, answering the unspoken question.  
  
"Okay." C. J. waited for more, but apparently other comments would not follow. "Has Leo said anything--?"  
  
She stopped at the look from Mrs. Landingham. "Right. Well, then," she said, her eyes straying to the ubiquitous jar on the desk.  
  
No one had eaten even one cookie since the shooting. The unofficial boycott had become their hourglass, their symbol of patience and endurance. They had silently agreed to abstain until the President returned and led them in a cookie feast.  
  
Sam stepped in a little closer. "Um – I heard that maybe – well, Leo said the President might be up to – that he could – and then we might – "  
  
"Very eloquent, Sam. And you write speeches for whom?" She smiled, to let him know she was kidding, and said, "Truthfully, I don't know."  
  
They both stood awkwardly for a moment, then spoke at the same time.  
  
"Okay. I'll just – go back to my office and – write."  
  
"I'll just – come back – later – and – right – okay – "  
  
They reached the words write and right at the same time. After another uneasy pause, they wandered off hesitantly, obviously not wanting to be too far away, just in case.  
  
The older woman allowed a quick shake of her straight ashen hair. She watched them go, then involuntarily glanced again at the picture of her two sons. Sam reminded her of them sometimes. Handsome, eager, a bit innocent. Swallowing, she broke away from those thoughts and began sorting through the papers again. She knew how C.J. and Sam felt, knew the butterflies of anticipation that happily danced in their stomachs now after the twisting pang of uncertainty that had kicked them just under a week before. Her memory replayed the scene of Margaret and her watching, horrified, as the television announced that shots had been fired at the President. She had not even waited to hear the rest, but had practically sprinted to find out what was going on. What if he had been seriously injured? What if he – ? She had known Jed Bartlet for almost 40 years, had seen him and his family through joys, trials, decisions. There was no description that could adequately capture the agony she felt as she waited for word, nor the relief when they found out his injuries were not as serious as they could have been.  
  
Then they all went through the pain of Josh's surgery and uncertainty. Still, he would be all right, too. And now, they were ready to try to return to normal. But they could not begin until the man who rightfully belonged in the room just to her left returned to take his place.  
  
"Ms. Landingham." The subdued voice barely registered, but it still managed to break her reflection. Before her stood the communications director.  
  
"How are you, Toby?" she said, with no indication at all of the emotions she had just experienced.  
  
"Fine." He stood silently for a few seconds. "I came to see if—"  
  
"I know nothing, Toby," she answered.  
  
"Thank you, Sergeant Shultz. I was just passing by."  
  
"I see."  
  
He stood silently and finally she said, "I don't know, Toby. I really don't."  
  
"Right. Okay." He glanced at the cookie jar, his expression a little sad, a little wistful. "Thank you, Mrs. Landingham."  
  
He started to say something else, but stopped short, staring at the man who had just appeared from the hallway leading from the residence stairs. Leo McGarry approached them and they both started at the faint smile on his craggy features.  
  
"Mrs. Landingham," he began, and she saw the slight smile that he occasionally allowed them, "what does the President's agenda look like today?"  
  
As if they had been lurking only meters away, and the secretary suspected that was exactly the case, C.J. and Sam instantly appeared at her desk. Toby acknowledged them with a glance before he returned his total attention to the Chief of Staff.  
  
With her usual calm, Mrs. Landingham flipped through the black notebook on her desk. "Let's see. He has a meeting with the National Security Advisor at ten, then lunch with the Minority Whip, then a speech to the League of Women Voters at 1:30, the christening of a ship in Norfolk at 3:45 – " She paused, then looked up, deadpan. "Then he's off to Disney World."  
  
Without reacting at all to her dubious list, Leo asked, "How about a morning of light paperwork and briefings instead?"  
  
"I think that can be arranged, sir," she answered crisply, not quite able to veil the lightness in her tone as a result of what his comments insinuated.  
  
"All right," Leo nodded, verifying her suspicions.  
  
This would be the day, then. Bracing against the surge of expectation, she watched as everyone else in the room mirrored her mental actions. Even after a week, she knew it must have taken a good bit of deal-making between the President and the First Lady to allow him these moments in his office. Abigail Bartlet was virtually unbendable when it came to her husband's well being, especially since – Delores Landingham stopped herself from bringing that thought to the surface. She wasn't even supposed to know, but she had heard things, seen things. Still, she wouldn't say a word, not until he was ready. Until then – She wouldn't admit it to the rest of the group gathering, but she was just as anxious as they were to see him again. To assess how he looked, how he acted, even how he talked. To make sure he was still – himself.  
  
For several minutes, they waited quietly, small talk bantered about, and as the word spread, their numbers steadily grew to include clerks and assistants, and assistants to assistants. Finally, Ron Butterfield appeared down the hall, his own hand still bandaged as a result of his attempt to shove the President out of harm's way. The watching crowd stiffened in anticipation.  
  
As they all collectively held their breath, Charlie Young appeared, his poker face blown by the smile that curved his lips. Two other Secret Servicemen followed; then, a familiar figure emerged, his customarily brisk pace slowed a bit, his usual business dress replaced by a Notre Dame sweatshirt, jeans, and Nikes. His usually ruddy cheeks were a little pale, and his hair, which never quite stayed completely in place anyway, seemed a little more rebellious. She caught the strain around his eyes, and thought he looked like he was consciously avoiding pressing a supporting hand against his side. Nevertheless, he smiled as he approached the group, and it was the same warm, charming, winning smile he had always had.  
  
He reached C.J. first. Mrs. Landingham watched her closely and could tell that she fought to hold back the emotion of seeing him again and knowing how close he had come to death in that one terrible instant.  
  
"Mister President," she began, faltered, then managed, "welcome back, sir." She obviously wanted to hug him, but did not want to hurt him.  
  
Bartlet smiled and pulled her to him gently.  
  
As she stepped back, biting her lip, Sam moved forward. "Sir, I-I...It's good to see you again, Mister President."  
  
"Sam," Bartlet said, patting the younger man on the shoulder, and it was the same distinctive, confident voice.  
  
Toby moved toward his leader. "If I may say, sir," he began softly, "we are all – gratified to see you and to know that—" He could not continue, and Mrs. Landingham found herself struggling to keep the emotion from erupting, just as everyone else seemed to be.  
  
Bartlet remained silent for a long moment, obviously fighting back his own reaction to their affection. Finally, he nodded, and responded, "Thank you. Thank you all."  
  
Then, as he visibly brought himself under control, he scanned the room, lingering on the faces of those in the back, crammed into the hallway, just to see him. Swallowing hard, he said, "We've been through an experience that I had hoped never to have. We've all been traumatized. We've almost lost one of our own. I would do just about anything if it had never happened. But it did happen, and it's our job to make it mean something."  
  
His eyes met with each one of his staff members', finally locking with Leo's. "Thank you, my friends. I – I couldn't ask for a better staff."  
  
Mrs. Landingham watched C.J. and Sam rub quickly at their eyes.  
  
"So..." He allowed them another glimpse of his smile, clapped his hands together, and asked in a loud voice, "What's next?"  
  
Leo grinned. "A little catch up, today, Mister President."  
  
"Right. Let's go to work, then," Bartlet responded. "Toby, don't you and Sam have a speech to write so that I have an outline for my extemporaneous remarks at the League of Women Voters rally?"  
  
Toby rose to the bait. "It will be so impressive, sir, that you would not dream of altering it with cheesy New Hampshire witticisms. "  
  
Bartlet laughed. "Don't bet on it! C.J., I think it's about time I spoke to the nation and showed them their fearless, and I use that term loosely, leader is back on the job."  
  
"Not a problem, sir. I'll arrange it."  
  
"Fine, but my wife thinks it would be better from the Oval Office instead of the Press Room."  
  
"She does have a point, Mister President," the Press Secretary said. "You probably wouldn't be quite as convincing if you fell out in front of the Press Corps." She winced visibly at that last comment, and Mrs. Landingham realized the younger woman had probably not meant to say that aloud. But the President merely raised his eyebrows briefly before responding.  
  
"Possibly," he conceded. "Still, we'll do a live conference next week, whether the First Lady agrees or not." He had begun moving gingerly toward the Oval Office but paused and added, "Not that she has to know I said that, you understand."  
  
"Yes sir." C.J. grinned.  
  
Sighs of relief flooded the room. That was it, then. Their President was back. The crowd thinned out as people went back to work, their hearts lighter, their hope renewed.  
  
Still, there was one more greeting to make. When Bartlet reached Mrs. Landingham's desk, he paused and they looked at each other for a long moment, neither one speaking. What could she say that would condense all the years they had known each other into a concise phrase? How could she relate to him the love she had for him, for Abbey, for the girls? Then she decided. She had waited for this moment, this simple gesture that would show him more than all her words could tell him.  
  
"Mister President," she finally said, extending the treasured jar toward him, "would you like a cookie?"  
  
The President's jaw dropped, several emotions flashing across his handsome face. She could see him considering various sarcastic remarks, but finally, he just grinned. "Thank you, Mrs. Landingham. I would like a cookie." And he understood. He heard every unuttered epithet she wanted to say and she knew he returned each equally. She watched as he selected a particularly large chocolate-macadamia nut. He paused briefly, caught her eyes and smiled, a deep, genuine smile.  
  
After Leo had escorted the President, cookie in hand, into the Oval Office, the senior staff remained by Mrs. Landingham's desk. She turned back to them, her innocent expression drawing smirks from all three, but they did not comment. Holding out the cookie jar to them, she said, aware of the silent agreement, "Help yourselves."  
  
As they returned, munching happily, to their various offices, she glanced at the closed door to her left, then settled back down to work, back to her routine, back to being the personal secretary to Dr. Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States of America. It had turned out to be a normal day after all. 


End file.
